Haggard (54 page)

But what of the future? A nightmare from the past, concerning Johnnie. Of course she would have been told what happened to Margaret Bold, by Emma. Perhaps by Johnnie as well. Two years ago. He had supposed that one dead and buried. He should have known better, when his scheme to marry the boy to Catherine Annesley had failed so dismally; Johnnie had just not been interested.

But of course it
was
no more than a nightmare. Alice had made no accusations. She had allowed her imagination to run wild, and it had finally overtaken her brain. She had no proof. Unless Wring had said something. That could easily be ascertained.

Thus what harm could there be in sending for Johnnie? Everyone knew that the girl was out of her mind, at least for the moment. Why, there was always a chance that when she recovered she might remember nothing of it. How ironical that she should have stumbled on the truth by sheer chance, through a blow on the head.

But Emma would also tell Roger what had happened. Why had he not considered that?

Would she? Did mothers, even Emmas, rush around telling everyone, my daughter was raped, did you know that, my daughter was raped? Except that to Roger she could say, my daughter was raped while walking out with your brother. Nothing more than that, unless she suspected.

And even if she suspected, what could she prove? What could Alice prove? What could anyone prove? And did it matter
what
could be proved? He was allowing his conscience to play him tricks, and it was a very long time since he had suffered from his conscience. He was Haggard. He had always done what he had decided was right, for the Haggards. Harming Margaret Bold had been no more than commanding a Negro slave to be flogged for insolence. There it was. That must never be forgotten. Perspective. That was the essential to a successful life. The girl had committed a crime in seducing Johnnie, and she had been punished in the most appropriate manner. Because, despite her hatred of him, he loved Alice, he was becoming a weak old man. It had to be combated. It would be combated.

But it would do no harm to make sure. He nodded to the girl, went down the stairs. Nugent waited for him. 'You'll send for Mr. MacGuinness, Nugent,' he said. 'And I want a word with Peter Wring, as well.'

Roger Haggard walked his horse through the trees, looked across the turnpike at the meadow, and then the other trees beyond. So far he was recognising all the landmarks he had been given. Would he also recognise the family?

He kicked his horse, cantered across the road and once more into the trees. Corcoran had wanted to accompany him. 'You cannot ride abroad by yourself, Captain,' he had pleaded. 'Not with that arm. Why, sir, suppose you was to be set upon by footpads?'

'Footpads? In Derbyshire.'

'Oh, aye, Captain. You want to think about that. There's a lot of discontent in these parts. In the whole country, they're saying, but most especially in the north. There's no food, Captain, and no work, neither. Tis an unhappy country, England.'

An unhappy country. Roger found that difficult to believe, as he cantered towards the trees, ducked his head to avoid the low branches, inhaled the smell of the sun-scorched leaves. And if it was, surely the people should be the more grateful to men like Haggard who had provided them with employment and a certain security. Certainly he could not be held responsible for rising food prices.

In any event, it was no problem of his, at the moment. Father might wish to look to the future, but
his
business was to regain his health and return to his regiment; he could do nothing better for his country, and for its people, than bring Bonaparte to his knees as rapidly as possible. His problem was to deal with the Bolds. And how he wanted to do that, how he wanted to see Emma again, how he wanted . . . the click of the hammer brought his head up, his hand tightening on the rein. He had been so deeply in thought he had not observed the little house. But now he looked from right to left, gazed at the two men, each armed with a fowling piece, each pointing it at him.

'You've business here?' demanded the elder man with the beard.

'And you've forgotten me, Harry Bold?'

'I remember you well enough, Captain Haggard.'

'But you've forgotten we once stood shoulder to shoulder.'

'A long time ago, Captain Haggard. Now you're not welcome here. This is my land.'

'Bought with my sister's money,' Haggard said, beginning to grow angry.

'My land,' Bold said again, it's legal. Captain Haggard. You'll leave it when I say so.'

'Alice sent me.'

Harry Bold glanced at his son.

' Tis a fact she did not come yesterday, Pa.'

'What's happened to her?' Bold demanded.

'A fall from her horse. Nothing more serious than a sprain. But she knows you're waiting for this.' He slapped the bag at his belt; the jingle was loud enough in the stillness of the morning.

Then give it to me,' Harry Bold said, coming closer.

Roger shook his head,
‘I
'm not likely to hand over money at gun point, Harry Bold. Besides, the money's for Emma. No doubt you'll follow me to the house.'

He touched his horse with his heels, walked it past the two men. He could feel the sweat on his shoulders, but he did not suppose they'd do anything violent. He had not harmed them, yet. But the Haggards had. Were memories really that long?

He turned in at the gate, walked his horse towards the front door, watched it open. Slowly he dismounted, tethered the reins to the ring. 'Have you no words for me?'

'Roger? Can it really be you?' Emma had lines on her forehead, and running away from the corners of her eyes and her mouth. Somehow he was disappointed; he had not expected Emma ever to age.

The bad penny.' He went towards her, watched her eyes drift away to the meadow behind him. They let me through.'

They'd not stop Roger Haggard.' Her tone was suddenly breathless, and now her gaze was shrouding him. 'Your arm?'

‘I
s useless, at the moment. But useful, in another fashion. But for it I'd not be home.'

'But you are home.' She clutched his left arm. 'Oh, Roger, my darling, darling Roger.'

He held her close, 'kissed her cheek. 'And finding a great deal to puzzle over.'

'Nothing for
you
to puzzle over, Roger. But . . . does your father know you are here?' 'Of course.'

She frowned. 'Did he not try to stop you?'

‘I’m
not a man to be stopped."

She moved her head back the better to look at him. She is thinking he is as arrogant as his father, he realised. But only someone as arrogant as John Haggard could possibly deal with John Haggard as an equal. That was where all the others, Emma herself, had made their mistakes. 'Will you not ask me in?' He allowed the bag to jingle,
‘I
have something for you, from Alice.'

Emma released him. 'She'll have told you that we exist on her charity.'

'She has told me very little.' He drew a long breath. 'She has had an accident.'

'She's hurt?' Emma's voice rose.

Roger had already determined on his approach. If Emma could not visit Alice at the Hall, then she must not be unduly alarmed. 'A fall from her horse. She has sprained an ankle and twisted a knee. She will be in bed for a few days.'

'Nothing more serious than that?'

'Of course not.'

Emma peered at him; he realised that she was short-sighted. 'You'd not lie to me, Roger.'

'I'd not lie to anyone, Emma.' When was a lie not a lie? Whenever it was necessary?

'It was an insulting question.' She smiled at her husband and son as they came up. 'Here's Captain Roger Haggard of the 29th Foot. You remember Roger, Harry?'

'Aye.'

'Roger and your father once put the bailiffs to flight,' Emma told Tim. 'It was a rare sight. Twelve of them.'

'We'd not have done it without the dog,' Harry Bold said.

That's true." Roger said. 'Father had him put down.'

Emma glanced at him again, then at her husband. 'You'll come inside, Roger, and take a glass of cider.'

'No,' Harry Bold said. 'I'll have no Haggard inside my house.'

'He'll come inside,' Emma said, her voice quiet. 'I'd have him meet the rest of my family.'

'She screamed, Mr. Haggard,' Peter Wring said. 'Kept shouting don't touch me. Things like that.'

'And what did you say to her?' Haggard asked.

'Well, sir, I don't rightly remember. I tried to calm her, sir.'

'And the others? Toby Doon? Illing?'

'Same thing, sir. If they spoke at all.'

Haggard leaned back in his chair, stroked his chin. 'Begging your pardon, sir." MacGuinness said. 'You don't suppose . . .'

‘I
do not,' Haggard said. 'I just wanted to be sure no one had spoken carelessly. You've naught to concern yourselves with. Not after two years. And not so long as none of your lads are indiscreet, Peter.'

'Not after two years, Mr. Haggard. You can rely on them. They know where their bread is buttered.'

'Well, see that they don't forget it. I'm thinking of you. Wring. No one is going to bring me down, for the rape of a peasant girl.' He gave a grim smile. 'But I'd not like to have to hang you.'

Wring licked his lips. 'I'd not like that either, Mr. Haggard.'

Haggard nodded, waved his hand, and Wring left. MacGuinness remained. 'A sad business, Mr. Haggard.'

'Aye.'

'Will you be sending for Master Johnnie?'

'Yes. But there's naught to fear there.' He got up, and MacGuinness held the door for him. Haggard climbed the stairs, slowly. How damnably short was his breath, nowadays. He opened the bedroom door, gestured the girl back to her seat, once again stood by the end and stared at his daughter. 'Has she awakened?'

'Yes, sir, Mr. Haggard.'

'Eh? Why was I not called?'

'It was only for a moment, sir. She opened her eyes, and looked at me, and gave a groan, and closed them again.'

Certainly she looked peaceful enough at the moment. Perhaps she would die. Would that not be the best thing .for them all? For her, certainly; she had hardly ever lived. For himself . . . but what a dreadful thought. She was Alice Haggard. She was his daughter. The only daughter he had ever had. And she was as beautiful as her mother, for all the twisted hate that seethed within her. Oh, Alice, he thought. If only you could have loved me. I would have loved you. I could love you now.

But she sought only to destroy him. As if he needed to fear a twisted young woman who was in any event out of her mind. As if he needed to fear anyone. Even Roger. Haggard had no need to fear.

But oh, to be left alone. There was the dark pit lying at his feet.
‘
There was the pit over which he had hovered for the past fifteen years. He had never ever been close to Johnnie. He knew that now. He had never understood the boy. A poet. But it had been
deeper than that. He had feared, all along, the weakness that Alison's child would have to possess, without knowing what it was. But cowardice. He hated even to see the boy, however well he concealed it. And however well he concealed it, Johnnie was undoubtedly aware of it. He snapped his fingers. The answer to Johnnie's problems, and to his immediate past, was Barbados. Of course. Send him out to manage the plantation. Ferguson would look after him, and
he
need never worry about the boy again.

But throughout those fifteen years, only Alice had stood between him and his emptiness. Alice, standing and staring at him, hating him with all of her being, had yet been there. Always there.

But now there was Roger. And if she would attempt to drive a wedge between Roger and himself, then she would have to . . . but she included Roger in her hate.

He turned his head as the door opened.

'How is she?' Roger asked.

'Sleeping. It is certainly best. How did Emma take the news?'

'I did not tell her the truth of it. I told her about the sprained ankle, that was all. Father . . .'

'She'll not visit here. I told you that. She'll not visit here.'

'Aye, well
...
so long as she doesn't know. And so long as Alice recovers . . .
’

'Of course she'll recover. Will you be returning to the Bolds?'